Starting Over
by AineNiamh
Summary: John's life was boring after Sherlock died. So why is it so hard to cope with him coming back? Will their lives ever be the same again? Story better than summary, T now, maybe M later for language.
1. Same Boring Routine

Chapter 1: The Same Boring Routine

_Author's note: Yes, cheesy title is cheesy and this story idea has been well overdone but I wanted to try my hand at it. As much as I enjoying reading some cute Johnlock fics, this one is not meant to be a slash fic, but more of a friendship fic. I'm sorry if that seems boring but it's what I want to write about. I credit WebMD for the information on cancerous moles. You'll understand if you read on._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, then I would be awesome friends with Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Also, I am (unfortunately) an American who is attempting to use some British terminology. Don't be rude to me if I use them wrong, but feel free to correct me. _

The sun shone brightly through the window of John Watson's bedroom, blinding the doctor momentarily. Groaning, he turned on his side, similar to a tired child who did not want to get up to go to school that day. Not for the first time that week, the sandy blonde man sympathized with school children and wished that he could stay in bed. After all, it seemed like there was no point in getting up. His days were painstakingly repetitive now; waking up just as the sun was coming up to go to work at the surgery, see patients and their families until he clocked out in the evenings, returning home to waste a few hours watching the telly before he went to bed to repeat the process the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that one. This had become a routine he had familiarized himself with ever since that dreadful day. No matter what he did, whether it was through alcohol or busying himself with work, the image of his colleague, no his _friend_, hitting the ground was not going to disappear from his mind easily. Sherlock often spoke of his brain being a hard drive, and that he could 'delete' information that he deemed useless for his line of work. John was always slightly envious of the way Sherlock's brain worked, but now more than ever, he wished that he had that useful ability. What he would give to erase the last words Sherlock uttered on the phone, watching helplessly as he fell to the ground, the sickening amount of blood that surrounded his head on the pavement...

It was a well-known fact that John was a man who was used to seeing death, watching his fellow comrades die before him or in his arms when he would attempt to save them. It was quite gruesome, but eventually he taught himself to not let it affect him as much. At least, he was able to prevent their faces from haunting his dreams and was able to sleep again. The first night he was able to close his eyes with the threat of terrifying memories was the night he helped Sherlock catch a killer. Most people would have panicked or had a breakdown from killing someone, but John was used to it. You could not feel sorry every time you killed someone in a war, and, as Mycroft put it, with Sherlock he still saw the battlefield. Shooting the cabbie to ensure Sherlock's safety brought John back to Afghanistan, with hardly any hesitation or further thoughts on the matter. When asked about shooting the man, he simply responded that he was a bad cabbie, similar to the excuse he told himself when he was first stationed in order to relieve himself of guilt for killing someone. However, no matter how many deaths he had witnessed in his life, none were more surprising or stuck to his conscience more than Sherlock's. This was possibly due to that in the battlefield that the chances of someone coming out alive were slim. With Sherlock, it was different for John. He could have prevented it from happening somehow, perhaps even talking him out of it, but now it was too late. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

People who knew about their friendship wondered how John was able to get up every morning and continue with his work. If anyone had asked him, he would have replied that it was not as easy as it looked. Even with the increased amount of caffeine he forced into his system throughout the day, he would always come back to the flat with sunken tired eyes and a blank expression on his face, practically dragging his feet upstairs. He rarely spoke to anyone unless he was dealing with a patient or saying his usual "Morning" to Mrs. Hudson. Every now and then, he would receive a text from Lestrade asking him how things were at the hospital and if he wanted to grab a bite to eat some time to catch up. The doctor would give him short answers, hardly four words per text along with a polite decline on the dinner. While he appreciated the gesture, he was never in the mood to socialize with anyone, and hardly anything changed from working at a hospital. Same cases, different patients. That was all it ever was and it was absolutely _boring_.

_Come on, mate. You've got to get up now. Come on, get up! _The former soldier blinded reached for his phone on the nightstand, not bothering to open his eyes until the phone was near his face brightly showing him the time. 7:05. He 'slept in' five minutes more than he was used to in the mornings. Setting the phone back on the table, he pushed the covers back and set his feet on the ground, moving his neck around to loosen himself up. He stretched a bit before forcing himself up and making his way to the kitchen. Thankfully the coffee pot already had freshly brewed coffee made, making his morning a little bit easier. Not bothering to open the refrigerator for food, John walked to the nearest cabinet and took out a mug to fix his coffee in, adding a small amount of creamer (but never sugar) before pouring himself a cuppa. The mug was brought to his lips, blowing on it to cool it off before helping himself to his first sip of the day. Instantly, the bitter warm liquid filled his mouth and he swallowed the caffeinated drink before twitching his mouth a bit. He was slightly more alert than he was before, but it was going to take another cup to get him awake enough to walk to the hospital.

_Another day. Just another boring day._

What was surprising to many people was John's decision to remain on 221B Baker Street. Many people who lived with someone that committed suicide would want to leave that place immediately if they were close and had the option. Several people had thought he missed Sherlock Holmes and that he slept in the detective's room every night, taking in the familiar smells of a rumored lover. However, they were only half-right. It was true that John missed the dark haired man. It was only fitting as he was a very important friend to him, even with his unconscious insults towards his intelligence. There seemed to be a hole in John, wishing that the detective would come back, but he never went into Sherlock's room. He dared not, subconsciously not wanting to upset Sherlock if he should ever return. Lord knows he would never hear the end of it if he so much as moved the covers on his bed. No, John left that room exactly the way it was the day Sherlock died and had not been in there since.

After the caffeine started settling in his system, John took a quick shower and dressed in the proper doctor attire before heading out the door. As he grabbed his coat, he tried not to stare at the empty hook near him, shaking his head to prevent any memories of his friend from flooding back before he even set foot in the doctor's office. He glanced at the cane that rested near the couch in the middle of the room, wondering if he should take it with him today. It had been over three years since he used yet he believed the limp was slowly returning. The psychosomatic limp. Imagine what Sherlock would think if he had been there pondering over using a cane for his imaginative limp. _He would talk me out it, in his own way_. Checking that he had his keys with him, the doctor locked the door behind him and quickly went down the stairs.

"I'm off, Mrs. Hudson. Have a good one!", he shouted over his shoulder, opening the door to the outside world. The cold air bit his cheeks as he turned up his collar to the wind and continued walking. He did not care for driving much and he did not own a car, but he never minded this. The office was only a ten minute walk from the flat, no need to waste money on a taxi. Besides, walking through the chilling weather of London was one of the best ways to wake up. It always worked as John rounded the corner and continued down the straight line to his work. Even before Sherlock died, John was used to walking by himself. Sherlock rarely left the flat for anything that did not involve a case and the shorter man was not going to ask him to walk with him to his work. The walk was relaxing even in harsh weather. It gave him time to think, to reflect on old memories, and most importantly mentally prepare himself for seeing patients. The sandy blonde doctor was always an expert at masking his emotions from anyone, with the exception of Sherlock, but even then he could delay the man a few seconds which was more than what anyone could say. With his patients, it was more difficult to not reveal his emotions. This was why he chose to keep a blank look on his face at all time, with only his eyes giving away his true emotions. However, the former soldier was a determined man, and seemed to be decent at keeping his work and personal life separate.

A door was opened leading into the general practice and immediately John scrunched up his nose. No matter how many times he had entered this office, he could never quite get over the scent of overused cleaning products. Of course, this was to be expected in a doctor's office with sick patients coming in every hour, but one's nose could start bleeding if they spent too much time in the waiting room. Luckily for the locum doctor, he was only passing through the waiting room, never spending a long amount of time in there to begin with. Taking off his scarf, John managed a fake smile as he greeted the new receptionist (_Kathy, was it?_), a girl who looked more like a teenager if it had not been for the scrubs she was wearing. John walked straight to the back to hang up his coat and scarf, grabbing a white doctor's coat. Making sure he had his stethoscope around his neck, he was approached by one of the nurses telling him what room he was needed in. Stopping outside of the room, he skimmed over the file of his patient. _Abigail Martin. 25. Came in complaining about sore throat. Tests needed to check for strep_. John sighed, putting on his mask, before making his way into the room to begin his day.

* * *

><p>"Well, I cannot tell you right now if that mole is cancerous or not, Mrs. Brunner", John explained to the older woman, walking over to where her file was. The woman must have been in her early to mid-forties at first glance and had short brown curly hair that covered her neck enough to hide the mole in question. He clicked his pen and began writing in her file, partially glad that she was his last patient of the day. The day dragged on with parents bringing screaming children with earaches to the 'regulars' with a normal check-up that seemed to play twenty questions with the doctor. Something he never got about people were their constant <em>What if<em>s, as if they were questioning his qualifications. Damn the internet sometimes, he found himself thinking, trying to remain calm enough to answer their questions. This woman seemed like she wanted to ask him question after question about her simple condition.

"Then how will I know, doctor?", the woman asked, with slight fear in her eyes but a tight lipped straight line on her face. Her arms were crossed and her eyebrow raised, as if she were scolding a child.

John let out a quiet sigh, but kept his composure, "Only a dermatologist can tell you for sure. I can give you the number for one that's a couple streets over." _Good thinking, John. Perhaps you giving her a reference will make her realize that I tried all I could to help her. _In the comments section of her file, he wrote down the name of the dermatologist so that the receptionist will know what number to look up for the anxious woman.

"But how will they know?", the woman pushed on, her patience obviously wearing thin. "What are they going to do that's any different from what you've already done?"

Another sigh let his lips and John closed her file. He faced her again, trying not to let the tiredness show in his voice. "The dermatologist will examine it like I have, but they are better at recognizing anything cancerous. If it's necessary, they will perform a skin biopsy on it to make sure, but I don't think you should worry too much. Most moles are benign, more scary-looking than anything."

"Right, but why should I go see a dermatologist if it's not cancer?"

"Just to be sure. If it is, in fact, cancer, the doctor will be able to give you more options on what to do and hopefully catch it before it gets worse. If it's not, you should still see a dermatologist to make sure that you have no cancerous moles."

This answer did not seem to sit well with the woman as she stood up straight from her chair, remaining tight lipped with her chin up slightly. "So basically, I should just waste my money on someone tell me that it's not cancer and keep visits with them? Sounds like a scam to me. Do all you so-called doctors work together to try to get more money out of innocent people like myself? And you call yourself a professional." It took all of John's strength to not yell at the woman for being ungrateful and throw her file on the ground to stomp on it. Instead, he gritted his teeth and followed the woman out the room to the receptionist. He all but threw the file down in front of the poor girl before walking away. There was only so much he could take, and he could not take it much longer. As he walked down the hall, he torn off his white coat and hung it up quickly. If he timed it right, he would leave after the annoying woman was completely gone. There was never a fear that a patient could come over him, but he did not want to take that chance today. He waited in the back for several minutes before finally putting on a scarf and zipping up his coat. He waved politely at the young receptionist and let the cold wind sting his cheeks once he got outside.

Not even two steps away from the entrance of the general practice, a familiar ring went off, alerting him that he had received a text. Moving to the side, he took out his phone to check the message.

_Hey mate, haven't seen you in a while. Meet me at 20:00 at Angelo's. And don't give me some pathetic excuse on why you can't be here._

It was Greg, better known as Detective Inspector Lestrade, with his weekly text to John. For some reason, the former soldier smirked at the message, mostly at the wording. It almost sounded urgent to the man, but what could it be? Lestrade's career miraculously recovered when he managed to catch a serial killer who killed three children walking home, receiving a shot to the arm. He was proclaimed a hero, and proved himself again to the New Scotland Yard. It was not like he was going to need John's help on something; that was always Sherlock's area of expertise. Still, the man found himself shrugging and typed a quick reply to his old friend. Angelo's was only a twenty minute walk from the general practice. He could get there just in time if he went straight there. Pulling his collar up to the wind, he started down the street to the familiar Angelo's restaurant. Who knows? It might do him some good to see an old friend.


	2. The Anonymous Tip

Chapter 2: The Anonymous Tip

_Author's Note: First off, Thank you all so much for putting my story on Story Alert and for the few of you that reviewed it! In just one day, this story had six story alerts and favorites which makes me so happy and nervous at the same time. The pressure's on and I hope I don't let any of you down. Though I ask for reviews even if it is only for criticism. The fact that it has this much attention makes me happy so review if you can! Thank you!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, then I would be awesome friends with Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Also, I am (unfortunately) an American who is attempting to use some British terminology. Don't be rude to me if I use them wrong, but feel free to correct me._

It had been exactly two years, seven months, and three weeks since John had last set foot in Angelo's restaurant. He did not stay very long, not even having enough time to reach a table before the owner approached him. It was an interesting sight indeed to see a fully grown man on the verge of tears, but John left before Angelo could open his mouth. He had heard enough apologies and condolences to last him a lifetime and he was not in the mood to hear another one, no matter how genuine they were. After all, it had only been a couple of months since the incident and had been the first time that John had gone out besides for work or for the occasional but necessary grocery shopping. Since then, he kept true to his routine, avoiding people as much as he could. He often wondered if he was starting to develop an antisocial personality disorder, much like his intelligent former flatmate. After all, he seemed to have all the symptoms of a sociopath. No, he could not be one. There was already one sociopath in his life, _used_ to be in his life. Turning into one would not bring Sherlock back, not even for a split second.

As he rounded the corner leading into a new street, he spotted the restaurant and a sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach. It had been nearly four years since he had first walked into the restaurant with Sherlock, simply to prove a point and kill an hour or two. It was then did John really appreciate the annoying habit Sherlock had about deducing everything he possibly could. Without him, he would have carried on using a cane with a psychosomatic limp and constantly feeling miserable about his situation. Running around the streets of London brought him back to battlefield in a unique way; trying to catch a killer while catching up with a cab. As it turned out, it was the right cab but the wrong person. John did not seem to mind as he and Sherlock made their way back to their new flat. It was then that John realized his new flatmate, the emotionless cold-hearted detective he was, had the potential to be a good friend. From then on, even through the disagreements and times where he wanted to punch the man in the face (when he was not being told to), he acted as his official sidekick, expressing his loyalty no matter how questionable it seemed to people. Shaking his head, he checked both ways before jogging over to the restaurant. The wind blew harshly in his face right before he opened the door, getting inside before he could be blown away from where he was standing.

Angelo's looked exactly like he remembered it would be. Not a lot had changed since his last (and most unpleasant) visit. John thought he would be turned away from the door because of his last meeting with Angelo, but the man surprised him. He shook his hand like they were old friends reuniting over a long time. John gave him a polite but tightlipped smile despite it being the first genuine smile he had given in ages. The former housebreaker raised his arm, gesturing to a booth that was just past the bar as he nodded his thanks to the man. Immediately, the doctor spotted the pepper haired man that he had became good friends with over the years (as much as John could allow himself to be a friend to). The two men said nothing when John pulled out the chair across from where Lestrade was sitting. The detective inspector merely shook his head and embraced John, as if to say to tell him telepathically _It's been too long_. John gave him an honest smile, sitting down and ordering a water.

"How are things?", John asked, breaking the silence as he shed his coat off his shoulders. He fixed the collar on his tan-and-maroon plaid shirt and cuffs before focusing his attention on the man in front of him. He did not look like he had changed at all: tired face with a hint of sarcasm in his eyes. There were some new crinkles in the corners of his eyes but only John (and definitely Sherlock) would really notice. There were perhaps one or two more strands of grey in his hair but nothing that would be alarmingly different. It almost relieved John how little Greg had changed, though he would never admit it out loud. Angelo set down his glass of water next to him, and John nodded his thanks. "Few minutes, please", he asked the man, who walked off. He had memorized the menu, so there was no reason for him to look over it again. He focused his attention back to Greg, raising his eyebrows to let him know that he was waiting on an answer.

"Decent", the man answered honestly, taking a swig from the bottle in front of him.

"The divorce was made official about four months ago. 'Course everyone knew it would happen eventually but it's been good. Actually taking out a friend of mine tomorrow night. Might be interesting." This surprised the former soldier a bit not. It was not that Lestrade was not an attractive man, in fact he was quite good-looking for his age and could even rival those younger than him. However, John had never heard the man talk about his marriage or anything related to a love life outside of work. Normally, whenever they would go out in past for a pint or two, Greg made certain to never bring up with his now ex-wife, choosing topics like sports or how close he is to firing Anderson some days. Still, this surprise was not discomforting to John and he smiled back at the detective inspector.

"Oh, who?"

"Molly Hooper." John's eyes widened at the familiar name he had not heard in two years. Molly Hooper, the forensic pathologist that obviously had some feelings for Sherlock and was constantly brushed of by him, was going on a date with Lestrade? The shock lasted very briefly as John recalled the last Christmas he had spent with Sherlock. He distinctly remembered the instant that Molly's coat was off, Greg's eyes were glued to her with his jaw hanging out. The sight was amusing but John thought about it no further seeing how Greg had a wife at the time (though why he was spending Christmas with them instead of his wife was a mystery until now).

"Really? That's...well that's great, Greg." A grin creeped up on John's face before he knew it. It was strange to hear that Lestrade would date Molly. She was a very attractive yet small woman who had little smiles saved especially for Sherlock whenever he needed to examine a body. It was surprising to John that his death did not cause her as much harm as he thought it would. She was sad, yes, but he could have sworn there was a small glimmer of hope that betrayed her in her eyes. It was the same glimmer that John had for the next few months after his death, convinced that he would come home one day to see Sherlock sitting on the couch with a great number of nicotine patches on his arm. When that day never came, John became restless and cut himself off from the world.

Perhaps he was envious of the detective inspector for finding someone again, even it might be temporary. John never put too much thought into finding that certain someone to spend the rest of his life, especially after many numerous failed attempts at a relationship. After Christmas three years ago, he realized that was not what he needed. He had Sherlock, as unusual as it was, and he managed to fill that void of needing someone. Even when Sherlock ran off on his own or forced John to go check out a crime that he did not feel obligated enough to see for himself, he felt alone. After all, not even two weeks after he returned to London, he agreed to move in with after knowing him for only a day. Loneliness was not something he was used to, thanks in part to the army. After Sherlock died, even with Mrs. Hudson around, he never felt so lonely in life. The days went on, and John felt that void getting worse, urging him to find someone to fill it for him. However, his restlessness overpowered his need for human interaction and the doctor knew that he had no room to complain.

Angelo came back over and John's eyes were glued to the menu. He had wondered out to get, or if even he should eat. Hearing the grumbling noise vibrating in his stomach, he quickly remembered that he barely any food left in the flat and gave in, ordering a Fettucini Alfredo and mumbling a reminder to himself to get groceries later. Greg ordered a simple pasta dish and the menus were taken away. A silence fell upon the two men, and John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Normally it was easy to start a conversation with Greg, but nearly three years of hardly any contact can make any situation awkward. Still, John felt a need to make a conversation with the man, feeling it was necessary to not waste time with an old friend.

"So, um, any interesting cases? Any, uh, new people?", John awkward smiled at that last sentence. Why was it so strange to talk to Greg about his profession? _Probably because you practically worked for him for about a year_. After all the years he spent avoiding people, was this really the best he could come up with? Luckily for him, it did not seem to discourage the detective inspector as a tired chuckle escaped his lips.

"Only a couple. Young ones", he replied, taking a sip of his beer and setting it down. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and looked back at his friend. "One guy is incredibly smart and knows his shit when it comes to research but he's too blunt for his own good. Last week he interviewed a rape victim. Poor girl ran out of the room and he has the nerve to look at me like he didn't do a damn thing wrong." He shook his head, as John turned away for a second, remembering his old friend. Sherlock did not possess a filter when he was in his 'deduction' mode, often insulting people unconsciously. Still, there were times where he said the right words and John would have to force himself to not have his mouth hanging open in shock. They were quite rare but special in their own way.

Snapping back into reality again, John shook his head. "I guess that's how they are these days. Speaking before they think", he responded, having Lestrade nod in agreement. "Donovan and...Anderson still working with you?" It took all John had to not grit his teeth at the mention of those two names. He knew all too well it was Moriarty's fault that Sherlock was forced to take his own life, but the Donovan and Anderson definitely had a hand in him jumping. Without their complaint to the head of New Scotland Yard (even though it was Lestrade's own fault for constantly consulting Sherlock), Sherlock could still be pacing around their flat now and complaining of boredom while trying to find innocent objects around the place to experiment on.

"Unfortunately yes", Lestrade answered honestly, sensing the rage in John's voice despite his calm face. "Donovan still complains as usual, but she's too good at what she does for me to fire her. Same with Anderson. They keep to themselves now and I rarely speak with them when there is not a case." John half-smiled at this; after all this time, Greg was still on Sherlock's side. It was nice to know there were still people out there who truly believed in Sherlock Holmes and never gave in to what the press had said about it. The pepper-haired man shook his head as John gave him a small smile. What the man was trying to say was that he wished he could fire them both for what they did to Sherlock, but was too scared to say those words. To lose someone you cared about to suicide was like getting your ankle caught in a bear trap. You were going to live on, but you will endure so much pain along the way before you can get out of it. Like the bear trap, if left untreated, it can infect with you with more bitterness and unhappiness than you can handle. Even though it had been three years, he still did not know how to approach the subject of Sherlock without fear of a punch to the face or an angry rant.

The two men sat in silence again until Angelo brought back their food. "Enjoy, on me tonight", he lowered his head a little bit. Lestrade nodded his thanks as John voiced his, remembering his first time in with Sherlock. The poor man was under the delusion that the two men were a couple and helped create a more 'romantic' atmosphere for them that left John more uncomfortable and Sherlock oblivious.

"Still doing locum work?", the older man asked, breaking the silence and getting a forkful of pasta.

"Yeah. Thinking about applying for a full-time position seeing how I'm there all the time now. Not like I have other obligations now that-" The veteran stopped himself and stared into his plate. This was the first time all night that he nearly mentioned Sherlock and he was not ready for it. He did not mean to sound like he did not miss the excitement and thrill that came with solving cases with Sherlock. What he would give to have things the way they were three years ago. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath that Lestrade could not tell was to keep himself from getting angry or to keep himself from shedding tears. He figured it was the former as he knew the ex-soldier did not even cry at Sherlock's funeral. He just stared at the casket, blank face but sad eyes that could make the most emotionless man feel sympathetic. He was just about to say something when John beat him to it.

"So why were you so adamant that I join you for dinner, Greg? You already have a date tomorrow night, did you need practice?", John joked, trying to shake off the awkward silence that came from bringing up Sherlock again. Greg was avoiding his gaze "If so, you picked a lousy person to practice on. I've been on a date since-"

"We received an anonymous tip last week", Lestrade interrupted the doctor, with his eyes meeting John's again. The man frowned at this. A tip? There was no way that Greg would waste his time talking about work. They have not worked on a case together since Sherlock died, despite Greg's attempts at getting John's help. _He's not trying to get me to work with him, is he?_ John's assistance only seemed relevant to Sherlock as he was able to confirm the cause of death, but Greg had that same trust on John as Sherlock did for him. _But something just doesn't seem right..unless..._

"Wait, what kind of tip?", John asked, his eyes intense with curiosity. He was a smart man but he knew that hope was sometimes illogical. "Greg, what kind of a tip?", he repeated, trying to catch Greg's gaze again who had his hands raised in an attempt to calm down the anxious man in front of him.

"John, I have to warn you. It may come as a shock to you and-"

"Greg, what the hell are you on about? What was the tip?", John raised his voice, annoyed that the detective inspector was keeping things from him. A few onlookers stared at their table but the sandy-haired man could not care less. "Don't play games with me, Gr-"

"Sherlock Holmes is still alive and he has returned to London."


End file.
